but there's none. This is very dangerous."
The novillero-frightened perhaps-stood
like a statue; the muleta dangled immobile.
Suddenly the bull charged, caught the man
dead center, tossed him up and over. Shrieks
shredded the collective gasp of the crowd.
Swiftly the young torero scrambled to his
feet. Mercifully, the bull had slammed him
with his forehead rather than the lethal horns.
Striking a pose of stylized arrogance, the
man strode toward the animal. "The bull just
learned something," John murmured. "He hit
something that was solid. He will remember."
At that precise moment, the bull bolted for
ward. This time the horn caught the novillero
in the thigh; and this time he did not get up.
When his assistants carried him from the ring,
a crimson stain-like a rosebud opening into
a poppy into a camellia into a sunrise-spread
across his suit of lights.
Most brilliant and tragic of spectacles, the
corrida possesses a "clear and icy geometry of
death." Always for the bull; sometimes for the
man. In the golden arena, amid the swirling
capes and the sound of trumpets, the only
certainty is doom.
Andalusia, the Spirit of Spain
853